Hate, we all know, is a very strong word. I hate Manchester United, I hate Queen, I hate the Daily Mail. God, I seem to hate so much. I may have inherited this state of mind from my paternal grandparents, two dear old souls, who dislikes were obvious – all pop groups, TV presenters Michael Miles and Hughie Greene and wrestling heel Mick McManus – but their likes were and remain a mystery to me. But how much do I really, really hate and how much do I merely dislike?
Despite her death, which I admit to celebrating with a bottle of Champagne, I still feel visceral hatred for Margaret Thatcher. The word evil is a strong word, too, yet I have no hesitation in applying it to her. I hate billionaire media magnet Rupert Murdoch with a passion and have similar feelings towards Britain’s chief wrecker, the wealthy establishment figure (oh yes he is) Nigel Farage. But let’s go back to the beginning of this blog. What are my real feelings about Manchester United, Queen and the Daily Mail? Is hate the right word?
It is with the Daily Mail. Before World War Two, the Mail was a keen supporter of Britain’s own fascist leader, Oswald Mosley and it’s owner an admirer of Adolf Hitler. To be fair, the Mail has moved a long way to the right since those heady days of fascism and all the mass murder that went with it and it’s now the home to right wing nationalism, populism and a visceral dislike of anyone who doesn’t fit in their vision of how the country should look. So, hate is the right word. But the other two?
I’m not sure hate is the right word that I feel about Manchester United, or Man Ure as I call them. I admire and even like the great Sir Alex Ferguson and many of their players, particularly players of the past. Denis Law and George Best, you may be surprised to learn, were two of my earliest football heroes. Maybe I just don’t like them?
The popular beat combo outfit Queen is more complicated. Following their first single, Keep Yourself Alive, which I quite liked and even bought, despite my immediate dislike of the band’s ghastly use of stacked vocals. By the time their so-called classic, the execrable Bohemian Rhapsody, was dumped on an unsuspecting world, my immediate reaction was to visit every record shop in the land and physically destroy every copy of the record. Unfortunately, this proved impossible given that everyone else in the world appeared to have bought it, something that, as a contrarian, made me dislike it even more.
As the band’s popularity began to wane in the late 1970s, they chased the money, memorably and disgracefully playing shows in apartheid South Africa, notably at the whites only Sun City resort. Hopefully, that will finish them off, I hoped, but in 1985 they appeared at Wembley Stadium as part of the Live Aid shows, played a set in the sunshine that I thought was absolute shite, but everyone else thought was brilliant. That, sadly, was that and a lifetime began of switching the radio off every time Queen came on had started. ‘Don’t stop me now, I’m having such a good time’ made me want to stop them because, frankly, I wasn’t having such a good time. Or having a ball, for that matter. Guitar player Brian May seemed to be a decent cove, with a healthy interest in astronomy and wildlife. I couldn’t hate him. It was just that music, IF YOU CAN CALL THAT MUSIC, as grandfather Alfred would definitely have put it.
As with Manchester United, once I had separated the brand name from the people who made the brand possible, things became more nuanced. Not so the Daily Mail and its loathsome coterie of right-wing populist hacks. I definitely hated Queen’s awful music – and let’s be honest, it is awful – but the actual members of the band, that was different.
Indeed, I quite admired Farrokh Bulsara, known publicly was Freddie Mercury, if not for his singing – that was basically nails scraping down a blackboard to my ears – but for his obvious talents, which were clearly created for everyone except me. And anyway, how could anyone literally hate a man who died so tragically young at 45 from AIDS? I lost a friend from AIDS in the 1980s. It was horrible and I never forgot it.
In any event, I find that these days I don’t have enough time for hate, although at this stage in the general election campaign, I have plenty in reserve to direct at pint-sized loser and liar-in-chief Rishi Sunak and his own hate-filled Conservative government, as well as Nigel Farage who has admitted he wants to get rid of the NHS. How could you not hate someone who wants to do that?
Sometimes I try to look the other way, the same as I do these days with schadenfreude. Negative energy messes with my soul and my spirit and it makes my depression worse. If there is something I really don’t like – Mary Ann Hobbs’ voice on BBC 6 music, Mrs Brown’s Boys and anything that has Amanda Holden in it – I’ll look and listen the other way.
The lines between what I dislike and what I hate are so blurred these days, it seems pointless even thinking about it. I’ll always hate Thatcher, Murdoch, the Daily Mail and so on and I am content with that. Everything else, I should learn to accept or ignore. Whether I will succeed, who knows? Watch this space, read this blog.
As for you, my loyal reader, I love you. After all, without you, I’d be all on my own. I’d hate that.
